I’ve been to the Bolshoi many times before. I know the rehearsal rooms, the backstage, and the secret passageways just as well as the front lobby. My father and I easily make our way through the bustle of dancers in their ripped tights and battered shoes, the air redolent with the scent of hairspray, nylon, and sweat.
“Adrian and Dmitry, it’s been too long,” Danyl Kuznetsov greets us, dapper in his navy suit, with his dark hair and beard freshly trimmed.
Danyl is the one who helped secure my admission to Kingmakers. For that, I owe him two years’ service after I graduate.
“I hear you’re doing very well at school,” Danyl says, clapping me on the back.
“I enjoy the classes,” I say, which is mostly true.
“Now you get a little break. Even God rested for a day.” He chuckles, then pulls me close against his side, nodding toward the pretty little ballerina scurrying by. “You want to fuck one of those? I can bring one upstairs for you. Or two if you like! They’ll do anything for a part in the next show. Or a handful of rubles. They make no money here, not until they become principles.”
“No thank you,” I say stiffly.
“What’s wrong, you don’t like to fuck?”
“I don’t like dancers. Too skinny,” I say.
I don’t want to fuck a ballerina. Just standing in this theater is reminding me of things I don’t want to remember.
“Suit yourself.” Danyl shrugs.
He doesn’t bother asking my father. All the Bratva know that Adrian Yenin won’t disrobe for anything. And they probably prefer it that way. Even the most hardened soldiers don’t enjoy looking at my father’s face.
“Come have a drink, at least,” Danyl says, leading us up the back staircase to the private elevator, where we ascend to the topmost floor.
The penthouse suite is as lush and gleaming as the rest of the theater, every inch of space covered in red velvet, gilded gold, and sparkling chandeliers. I recognize most of the men already gathered, including the three Moscow bosses.
Moscow is divided into three territories, each with its own Pakhan. My father’s territory is run by Abram Balakin. Danyl is his lieutenant, and my father is third in line in terms of authority, though he could never be boss himself, not with his particular proclivities.
Since neither Abram nor Danyl has any children, it’s possible that I could become Pakhan someday. That’s the reason I was accepted to the Heirs division at Kingmakers. But my position is not assured. I’ll have to prove myself at school, and then in the ranks of the Bratva after graduation.
Abram greets me warmly. He’s always liked me, and my father too, because of all the money my father has saved the Bratva through his meticulous record-keeping and careful investment.
“You look strong, Dmitry,” he says approvingly. “They feed you well at school.”
Abram has been fed a little too well himself. His tailors must charge him twice the usual price for a suit, with the vast amount of fine Italian fabric required to cover that belly. His cheeks are floridly flushed from alcohol, and you could fit a weekend’s worth of luggage in the bags under his eyes.
Success has defeated Abram when no enemy could do it. He’s become lazy and complacent, a shadow of the warrior who once slaughtered thirty rivals in a single night.
He must secede his place sometime in the next five years or ten, before it’s taken from him forcibly. I’m sure he knows this. He’s transferring assets out of the country and promoting the men beneath him.
I can almost taste Danyl’s ambition as he stands shoulder to shoulder with his boss. He wants to be Pakhan, badly.
And who will be lieutenant then?
“Abram,” Egor Antonov says. “I brought you one of those Don Arturo cigars you love so well. Smoke with me; my son is home for the summer.”
Egor holds out the cigar to Abram, subtly shouldering aside my father so that he and his son stand in a better position. My father takes a step back, leaning on his walking stick. I clench my fists inside the pockets of my trousers.
I know Vanya Antonov from Kingmakers. He’s an Enforcer in my year, friends with Bodashka Kushnir and Silas Gray. He’s tall and well-built, square-jawed, with a bold Roman nose and dark features. He has an arrogant tilt to his chin and a smile that’s more of a smirk.
“Now there’s another well-built lad,” Abram says, slapping Vanya on the back. “I wish all